


let me do it right for once

by rusesdeguerre



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Headaches & Migraines, M/M, alex edler character assassination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:16:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22061977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rusesdeguerre/pseuds/rusesdeguerre
Summary: G likes to dole out a lot of unsolicited—and usually bad—captain advice, but the journaling would probably help, Travis admits. The number of Patty or Patty adjacent thoughts he has on a daily basis is obscene and, quite frankly, embarrassing. He doesn’t think any person has occupied this amount of valuable brain space since ever. And when he says “valuable,” hereallymeans valuable.Or: Travis develops a Patty problem, receives some advice, tries out journaling, and scores a goal.
Relationships: Travis Konecny/Nolan Patrick
Comments: 40
Kudos: 547





	let me do it right for once

If Travis really needs to approximate a timeline—which he does, often, because his brain refuses to shut up _ever_—he would ballpark this whole Nolan Patrick problem to have started around the time of G’s wedding. He is, however, vaguely aware that the physical manifestation of his repressed emotions for Patty in the form of a drunken couples dance, followed by a friendly ass tap and a friendly sloppy kiss to the cheek (“friendly, like as teammates!” he had later tried to defend himself to G with no success) is not exactly the same as the preceding five months of attributing said emotions to “intense bro feelings.” Travis has always been good at compartmentalizing, hastily tucking away parts of himself into the dark hidden crevices at the back of his brain, hopefully never to be dealt with again. So, he’s thoroughly alarmed by how unable he is to shove down the daily bouts of fondness and affection he feels when he sees Patty walk into the rink in the morning. 

All of this is to say that it’s been a long time coming. When G finally does corner him after practice, Travis already knows what he wants to talk about. 

“Okay,” G starts, “I know you’re going to tell me this is none of my business—”

“Because it _ isn’t _ your business!” 

“—but as your captain, I feel like I’m obligated to look out for you. Even off the ice, as much as it pains me to do so, since I already have a kid at home and don’t particularly want another one,” G continues, ignoring Travis. “Firstly, thank you for entrusting me, I know this might be a scary and difficult time—” 

Travis groans. “Stop, stop, stop. Man, did you memorize the Huffpost article for what to say when your gay son comes out to you?” 

“What? No,” G slants his eyes. 

“Aw,” Travis says. “Is this practice in case you need it for your real son?” 

“Maybe.” G narrows his eyes at Travis. “Stop changing the topic. Is this about Patty?” 

“Hm?” Travis tries. “Who’s Patty?” 

“Don’t lie to me,” G says. “Last week at dinner he talked about that indie band he liked for thirty minutes straight and then about the Manitoban backwoods for another thirty minutes, and you _ listened _ to him _ the entire time_.” 

Travis grimaces. “Okay, whatever, so it is about Patty. It’s fine! I’m dealing with it. Also,” he adds after a second, “for the record, I’m a big fan of indie music and Manitoba.” 

“No, you’re fucking not; you’re just a big fan of Patty.” 

“Oh my God, don’t say those things here in the rink. What if he hears you?” 

G rubs his hand over his forehead in clear despair and leans against the wall. “Have you tried talking to Patty about this?” 

“Have I tried talking to _ Patty _ about the _ Patty problem_?” 

“Yeah, exactly. That.” 

Travis looks at G, equally baffled and incredulous. “No. _ No_, what the fuck?” 

G holds up his hands. “Okay, geez. Fine, fine. Do you want to talk to me about it, then?” 

“Uh,” Travis hesitates. It would likely be beneficial to talk to someone about the Patty problem that has been festering for nearly a year now; his mom is always sending him emails with phone numbers for sport therapists in the Philly region. On the other hand, the last time Travis tried to unload an emotional burden onto G—when Coots went through that bad breakup last November and had scowled intensely at Travis when he asked if something was wrong (in his defence, Travis had no idea that Melissa had cheated on Coots with some mechanical engineer who had transferred from Pittsburgh), Travis had come to the extremely logical and reasonable conclusion that Coots had developed a sudden hatred towards him and it was possible Hakstol would let Gritty eat him in a sacrificial ritual for pissing off Coots—he had just laughed at Travis and good-naturedly told him to fuck off. 

When Travis doesn’t answer for a full minute, G suggests, “You could try journaling.” 

“Journaling?” 

“Yeah, it helps to clear your head and it’s good to physically write down what you’re feeling,” G recites, probably regurgitating a Ryanne speech verbatim. 

“I don’t own a notebook _ or _a pencil. I haven’t written a full sentence since like, the eleventh grade.” 

“I can give you a notebook and pencil,” G offers, because he has an extraordinary wife who makes sure they have things like notebooks and pencils in the house and throws out all the ugly suits that G buys and keeps low-calorie ice-cream alternatives in their freezer at all times. Travis tries to remember what he has in his freezer; he knows Patty put a can of soda water in there a couple of months ago to see if they could freeze the bubbles (inconclusive results, mainly because both of them had forgotten about it). 

“Do you think Coach would give me a notebook with the Flyers logo on it?” Travis asks. 

“Yeah, I can talk to him,” G says. “I think you should talk to Patty, though.”

Travis shakes his head, but he’s already mentally clocked out of this conversation; he’s thinking about maybe decorating the front of his new Flyers notebook with the Gritty stickers he saw in the media room the other day.

__________

G likes to dole out a lot of unsolicited—and usually bad—captain advice (“Sanny, you don’t need a back-up camera—don’t waste your money! Just go with your gut, y’know, that always works for me”), but the journaling would probably help, Travis admits. The number of Patty or Patty adjacent thoughts he has on a daily basis is obscene and quite frankly, embarrassing. He doesn’t think any person has occupied this amount of valuable brain space since . . . ever. And when he says “valuable,” he _really_ means valuable. Once, G told Travis that he had the most efficient brain of anyone he knew; not because Travis was particularly good at understanding plays or anything, but because the fact that he was still alive and well was a testament to the capacity of the three functioning brain cells he did have. 

For example: after Travis eats dinner (salmon and asparagus, courtesy of a recipe he stole from Provy who is a much better cook than he is) and watches a couple of episodes of Chasing Monsters (he’s gifting himself a fishing trip to Cuba for his next birthday because that weird ass tarpon fish looks fucking sick), he goes to bed. He half-heartedly tries to sleep for all of fifteen minutes before his brain starts the nightly process of cataloguing all of its Patty thoughts. 

The stupidest thing about the Patty problem was that if Travis could just stop thinking about it, the entire problem would be solved. 

Sometimes, on their days off, he’ll sleep in until noon, fuck around on his phone for an hour playing Farmville, text his dad about a fish he saw on Chasing Monsters last weekend, order takeout from the sushi place across the street—and at this point, it’ll be around two thirty in the afternoon—before he even thinks about Patty. On a game day, when he gets to see Patty’s dumb face for morning skate, usually in the trainers’ room where he’s taken to hiding out these days, he doesn’t _ stop _thinking about Patty and the weird Patty things he does like never tying his shoes or refusing to enunciate anything. He isn’t even playing games yet, which makes Travis want to kill someone, but that doesn’t stop him from following Kevin around like a puppy to get any additional Patty updates that he didn’t successfully squeeze out of Patty himself. 

Theoretically, Travis is improving; at least he’s self-aware of the Patty problem, which is more than he could have said a couple of months ago. But in reality, his brain must be deteriorating into a mushy pile of steaming hot garbage because the number of hours he can go without seeing something and thinking “huh, Patty would hate that” or “Patty would lose his fucking mind over that” has been decreasing exponentially. 

Travis should probably not be left alone with his brain in the dark for more than thirty minutes at a time. At that point, it starts to come up with awfully romantic scenarios involving dates and hand-holding and Patty’s little pleased smile when he makes a dumb fucking joke. Then Travis has to scream into his pillow for an extended period of time and do a few laps around his living room to get the Patty smile out of his head. Jesus Christ. 

He’s been calling this the Patty problem for the last couple of months, but he’s thinking of applying for a formal name change because this is, at the very least, a crisis. Patty Crisis, trademarked. He needs to go to the US patents office. 

He picks up his phone from where it’s charging on the floor and texts Kevin, _ Can I apply for patents online? _All he gets back is the middle finger emoji and an incredible photo of Patty passed out on the couch. He saves the photo and tries really hard not to think about Patty’s stupid hair sticking up in every cardinal direction and Patty’s stupid face all smushed up against Kev’s rented orange couch. 

After a quick Patty freak out session, he texts G the same thing about the patents. 

G doesn’t respond, understandably, since it’s one o’clock in the morning and he was complaining just last week about how he hasn’t gotten a full eight hours of sleep since Gavin was born. 

Travis’ thoughts drift over to G’s kid. Gav’s a cute baby, but it kind of scares him how small he is. Chara, that freaky giraffe motherfucker, could probably crush him with one hand. Jesus, Travis hopes G and Ryanne have a contingency plan for dealing with accidental baby crushing. Gav also once chomped down on Patty’s finger when he tried to poke his cheek; that showed him never to mess with a baby. Travis had laughed so hard at that that his stomach felt like he had just done AV’s “skate or die” suicide drill. He had to pay for Patty’s dinner a bazillion times after that to make up for it, but he wasn’t the one moonlighting as a baby chew toy, so he took the L on that one easily enough. 

Travis wonders if Patty ever wants kids. He doesn’t strike Travis as the kind of guy to go crazy over babies but he can imagine Patty taking his kid to go fishing or hunting or some weird hybridization of the two, and maybe teaching his kid to skate in the outdoor rink he’ll probably have in his backyard in Manitoba, and maybe Travis could take them to the cabin during the summer, and _ Christ,_ Travis needs to set his brain on fire before this fantasy spirals out of control. Time to do a few laps. 

__________

Travis drives Patty to morning skate the next day. Whatever meds the trainers have been prescribing him seem to working consistently enough; when Patty texted him _ Pick up? _this morning, Travis allowed himself a couple of congratulatory fist bumps and refused to feel ashamed about it. God, he hopes the trainers find a way to help out Patty’s migraines. Not really for the team—although, they would probably be winning a couple more games with Patty in the line-up—but mainly because Patty hates losing hockey games with an intensity that kind of scares Travis sometimes. He tries to imagine how pent-up and restless he would be from watching the team lose and not being able to do anything about it. And, he guesses, also from feeling like his brain was trying to liquify right out of ears. But maybe it’s not the same for Patty. He’s cool as ice, most of the time. He doesn’t say much, not even when he’s sitting in the box and some asshole in the stands is calling him names. Travis always wants to bowl them over. 

He glances over at Patty in the passenger seat. He’s frowning and going through his entire fucking collection of indie music playlists that all sound vaguely the same to Travis. 

“Fuck you,” Patty says mildly, when Travis tells him so. “Every single one of _ your _ country songs sound literally identical to each other. I bet you couldn’t even tell the difference.”

“Asshole,” Travis bites and then, ”fucking bet,” because he physically cannot back down from a challenge. Patty smirks, like he knows he just backed Travis into a bear trap. 

They sit in the morning traffic on the 295 for nearly twenty minutes. Travis nails every country song Patty plays, which, to be fair, is ridiculously easy because Patty’s country music knowledge extends exclusively to Dolly Parton and Garth Brooks. Shameful. Next movie night, he’s forcing Patty to watch those Ken Burns country music documentaries. 

“What was that? Ten for ten?” Travis crows.

Patty rolls his eyes. “Whatever, man. Can’t believe you conned me into listening to country music for twenty minutes.”

Travis smiles smugly at him as the traffic inches forward. “I’m resourceful,” he says, “Like magpies.” 

“Are magpies also annoying as fuck?” 

“Pats, magpies are fucking awesome. They eat dead animals and love checking themselves out.” 

“Like in mirrors or some shit?” 

“Yup.” 

“Huh.” Putty puts his legs up on the dash and starts typing on his phone. He scrolls a bit. “_Huh_. Cool.” 

“Yeah,” Travis agrees. “Hit me up for bird knowledge.” 

“Thanks, Teeks,” Patty says dryly, but the corner of his mouth twitches a couple of times, like he thinks Travis is amusing but he doesn’t want any emotion leaking out of his usual stoic stone face. It’s one of Travis’ favourite Patty faces. 

Unfortunately, it’s also a Patty face distracting enough that Travis almost misses his left turn. “Fuck,” he says emphatically, as he pulls an abrupt left through two lanes of rush hour traffic. The coffee cup he’s been balancing between his legs spills. He yelps; the coffee is fucking scalding. 

He pulls into his parking spot, swearing, and leans across Patty to scramble through the glove box for some Kleenex. 

“Jesus, man,” Patty says, handing him a wad of tissue paper. “You’re a mess.” 

“I hate that left turn. Fucking Jersey,” Travis complains. He rubs at the coffee stain; it isn’t coming out of these nice pants anytime soon. “Fuck,” he says again, just so God himself can hear. 

Patty reaches over and gently slaps his thigh where the coffee stain is. “Who let you be an adult?” he asks, and then, “Seriously, bud, you’re a mess,” but with a weird face spasm. It’s a good question, Travis thinks. You probably need credentials and certifications to be an adult; Travis doesn’t have any of those. 

Inside the locker room, G takes one look at Travis and Patty walking in together, Travis with a stain on his pants and Patty holding a Kleenex box, and raises both eyebrows, wry and sarcastic and unimpressed, if a double eyebrow raise can be all of those things. Travis opens his mouth to explain himself and complain some more about the inexcusably poorly-designed left turn entrance into the parking lot, but G just lets out a long sigh and says, “I’m raising a team of children.” 

Behind him, Riems wrestles Other Travis to the ground and puts him in a headlock. “G,” Sanny wheezes and slaps the ground a couple of times. “Help! I’m gonna suffocate.” 

“I don’t give a fuck,” G says and turns around to either finish taping up his socks or start plotting murder. 

Travis turns to Patty when G leaves. “Should we get him a Father’s Day present?” 

Patty gives him a look that says, _ Shouldn’t his own kid be doing that? _ Travis responds with a look that says, _ Gav’s skull is probably still as soft as mashed potatoes. How the fuck is he going to buy G a Father’s Day present with a mashed potato skull? _

Patty’s mouth says, “It’s literally November.” 

“A late Father’s Day present,” Travis concedes. 

“Sure, we can go to the mall after you’re done skate,” Patty says and clasps a hand over the back of Travis’ neck. It sends goosebumps all down his spine. Travis shivers, feeling like he’s going to burst right out from under his skin, like his skin is barely keeping him inside, and thinking that he should have gotten used to this by now—this: the constant casual touches around the back of his neck, across his wrist, behind his ear. One of these days, he won’t feel like he needs to die when Patty touches him, but he doubts it. There’s a noticeable pattern of action here: it’s Patty, and Travis is decidedly not chill, ever, about Patty. 

Patty gives Travis another weird look but doesn’t say anything. Pete, one of the team physicians, calls Patty to his office, probably so he can poke around in his brain for a little bit, and Patty removes his hand from Travis’ neck and goes. 

Morning skate is fine. Travis is _ fine. _G is quick to say that that definition only checks out if by “fine,” you mean “ready to combust at any moment’s notice.” Okay, fair. Travis is willing to admit he is a bit of a hairline trigger and should probably come with a Workplace Hazard symbol: the one with the little campfire, maybe. Travis likes camping a lot. He also likes Patty a lot. Hence, the Workplace Hazard symbol. In addition to the usual Patty stuff, Travis also gets made fun of all throughout skate for the coffee incident because G cannot keep anything to himself if it involves embarrassing Travis. Riems keeps asking him if he needs to borrow an extra pair of pants and then rescinding his offer because “they aren’t camo pants.” Fucking Riems. 

Coots slides over beside Travis as AV is drawing a bunch of Xs on the whiteboard. “How’s Pats doing?” 

“Uh,” Travis says. “Good, I think. He texted me a photo of an apple pie yesterday.”

Coots is skeptical. “He _ baked _a pie?” 

“I think he and Hayesy just bought one from Costco,” Travis says. 

“Hm,” Coots tilts his head back and forth, like he’s thinking about the viability of Patty baking a pie. “Hayesy_ does _bake sometimes. Maybe they did bake a pie.” 

“What?” Travis squints. “Hayesy doesn’t bake. There’s no fucking way. Are you joking?”

From the other side of Travis, G hisses, “Pay attention,” and pointedly gestures towards AV’s whiteboard lesson, so Travis doesn’t find out whether Coots is fucking with him or not. 

Like he was saying, skate is fine, if uneventful. Jake knocks G into the boards and loudly hums the WWE theme; AV yells a bunch about defensive responsibility; Travis is pretty sure Ghost zoned out ten minutes ago and has started counting the seats in the stands. 

“Good hustle, boys,” AV says, and then blows his whistle to signal the end of skate. 

Just as Travis is getting off the rink, G grabs his elbow and pulls him back. He has to frantically grab at the boards to right himself. “Jesus, G,” he gasps, “relax.” 

“Sorry,” G says, obviously not feeling sorry at all. He hands Travis an orange notebook. It has the Flyers logo on it with BROAD STREET BULLIES printed below in Impact font. The back cover has a hideous illustration of Gritty. “Here, for the journaling that we talked about.” 

“Oh,” Travis says. “Thanks, man.” 

G says, “No worries. Do you know how to use that?” 

Travis cannot tell if G is asking that sarcastically or genuinely. Either way, he feels a little bit offended. He did go to school, even if the Ontario public school system was mediocre at best and a money laundering scheme at worst. “Do I know how to use a _ notebook_?” 

“Just making sure,” G grins. He slaps Travis’ shoulder. “You’re a smart kid, you know? I think if you’re just able to apply that in other situations such as—”

“Christ, shut up,” Travis interrupts. “Stop parenting me! I have parents!” 

“I’m not _ parenting_,” G insists. “This is captain stuff. I’m a captain. I’m supposed to be doing captain stuff! I’m the one that stops Coach from carving you with a skate, you know? That’s captain responsibility!” 

“Coach wouldn’t do that. He loves me,” Travis lies. AV doesn’t love anyone. 

“Coach doesn’t love anyone,” G says. He points at the notebook and then at Travis. “I’m expecting you to use that. Or talk to Patty!” 

No way, Jose is he going to talk to Patty. He gives a thumbs up to G anyway—who doesn’t even look halfway to impressed—and goes to the trainers’ room to find Patty. 

__________

Travis forgets about the journaling thing for two weeks. 

For one thing, he has to dig around his apartment for a pen. He does eventually find one; it’s in the drawer he keeps spare sponges and kitchen towels in, but he also incidentally finds the USB charger for his PS4 controller in the same drawer. So, obviously, instead of doing the “writing down his feelings” thing, he picks up Red Dead from where he last left off and plays until the completely reasonable hour of four o’clock in the morning. Just before he’s about to pass out on the couch, he texts Patty about how Abigail Marston kind of reminds him of his mom and how isn’t it fucked up that you’re allowed to give your horse stimulants in this game? Drugs for horses! God, _so _fucked up. 

For another thing, Travis isn’t really sure how to _ start _ with this whole journal thing. Is he supposed to address it to someone? Like “Dear Diary” or something? Jesus, he really doesn’t want to do that. 

The point is, the journal sits on his couch for two weeks, the Gritty side up, openly taunting him. Coots comes over sometime during that period, but he’s too busy in the washroom throwing up all the shots he had to notice Gritty’s crazy eyes on Travis’ couch. 

__________

Patty has a pretty good no-migraine week, does a couple of optional morning skates, and then it goes to shit again. Management puts him on IR, which okay, Travis guesses that’s a reasonable thing to do, but he hates it. Hates not seeing Patty all the time, hates making the drive to the rink by himself, hates how awful it’s gotta be for Patty. He thinks about going over to Kevin’s place, just to say hi to Patty, but he knows he probably wants a lot of quiet right now and Travis never knows when to shut up. He wonders if Kev knows about the chowder from that seafood place in Little Saigon that Patty likes. Probably, right? Patty always talks about that chowder. 

He decides to call G. Travis thinks that this probably counts as a problem that constitutes to captain responsibility. The phone rings a couple of times before he picks up. 

“Hey, TK?” G’s voice is tinny; there’s the sound of a baby laughing in the background. 

“G, listen, I need your opinion on something,” Travis says. 

“Okay, sure. What’s up?” 

“Okay,” Travis says, “so you know that seafood place I took you to once? On Washington and Ninth? With the fish market?” 

“Yeah, yeah. Do you want the number of the owner or something?” 

“What? No.” And then: “You know the owner of that place?” 

“TK, what do you need?” 

Travis inhales, and then spits out, “Do you think I should go get Patty some soup from there and bring it over to his and Hayesy’s place?” all in one giant breath. 

There’s a brief moment of silence, as if G had to put his phone down for a second to compose his thoughts, and then a very long exhale. G says, “This is what the journal is for, TK! All your Patty thoughts go into the journal! It’s your Patty journal! Yes, for fuck’s sake, go get soup for the love of your life.” And then he hangs up, leaving Travis to say bye to the ring tone. 

It must be nice to be married to someone you love, Travis thinks. G definitely seems more relaxed and chilled out these days. 

Thirty minutes and one illegal U-turn later, Travis is standing outside of Kev’s place with three styrofoam containers of shrimp and crab chowder. He texts Kevin to let him inside; Patty’s probably asleep, or pretending to be, or trying to be, so he doesn’t want to knock or ring the doorbell. Kevin opens the door wearing a wrinkled Rangers t-shirt. He says, “Hey, Trav,” and pulls him in for a long hug.

Travis leans back to look at Kevin and flicks the sleeves of his t-shirt. “This has got to be sacrilegious,” he says, “You’re a team traitor, bud.” 

“Shut up.” 

Travis continues, “No, seriously, loyalty doesn’t mean shit anymore, huh? Broadway over Broad Street, is that it? Guess you can take the boy outta New York, but you can’t take New York outta the boy.” 

“I’m literally from fucking Boston,” Kevin rolls his eyes, “and it’s laundry day.” As if Kevin has any idea what the concept of “laundry” is. Whoever was in charge of letting Travis become an adult also fucked up with Kev. “You here to see Pats?” 

“Yeah, I have that soup he likes. But I can just leave it in the fridge if he’s asleep or something.” 

“Nah, he’s doing alright today, came down for breakfast and stuff. He misses you, man.” 

Travis cannot imagine Patty expressing that amount of emotion to Kev with words or even with the sad Patty face, but he walks down the hall to his room anyway. He knocks gently on the door and calls out, “Pats? It’s TK. Hayesy said you’re up?” 

He hears Patty grunt, but in an affirmative way, which is Patty-speak for yes. Travis creaks the door open and pokes his head inside. The curtains are drawn closed and there’s acoustic music playing softly from the laptop on the windowsill. Patty’s sitting up in bed with three pillows cushioned behind him against the headboard. He salutes Travis when he walks in. “What up,” he says; his voice is even softer than usual. 

Travis holds up the brown bag with the soup containers. “Got you chowder,” and then in Kev's Masshole Boston accent, “Chow-dah.” 

Patty doesn’t smile or laugh, but his eyebrows twitch a little bit and he isn’t making the sad Patty face Travis thought he would be, so he’s going to count that as a win for now. 

Travis puts the bag on the nightstand and digs around for a plastic spoon and hands it to Patty with the soup container. Patty takes them and peels the lid off with his teeth. “Thanks, Teeks,” he mumbles with the lid between his lips. “Didn’t know you were dropping by today.” 

“Just came to say hi. And to say that you’re a trooper,” Travis says. He rips open a pack of soda crackers and crumbles one into the soup. “You’re an absolute warrior, man. No joke, seriously.” 

“Mmgrh,” Pats says unconvincingly around a mouthful of chowder, which doesn’t sound at all good or encouraging, but he does scoot over on his bed and gesture for Travis to sit down. 

Travis swings his legs under the covers with Patty’s. He puts another soda cracker into the chowder. “You gotta tell me if I’m annoying the shit out of you, Pats. I’ll get outta here if you want.” 

“You always annoy the shit out of me,” Patty’s mouth says. _ Stay_, his face says. 

Travis says _ You’re stuck with me, I guess _with his face back to Patty and tries really hard not to think about how he wants to pet Patty’s hair and turn Patty’s hands over in his, both of them, and smooth his thumb over the calluses on his palms. He loves Kevin, he really does, but he wishes Patty was still living downstairs from him, that he could take a couple of flights of stairs and see his face, even if it’s the sad Patty face, because he’s a big fan of all the Patty faces, and tell him it’s going to get better, he swears to God, even if he doesn’t believe it. It occurs to him that this is probably what G meant when he was going on about what journaling is supposed to be for, and then it occurs to him that this has definitely crossed the plausible deniability line of “intense bro feelings”—if it hadn’t already. Travis says none of this, and Patty misses the entire revelation because he’s too busy trying not to spill soup on his bedsheets. 

“Trainers say anything about the meds?” he asks when Patty finishes the soup. 

“Trying a different one next week. The ones from before stopped working.” He leans over Travis to put the empty soup container on the nightstand. 

“They’ll find one that works, Pats, I swear.” 

Patty sighs and scoots down on his bed until he disappears under the covers. Travis pats the lump of covers that is Patty as comfortingly as he can. 

“Teeks, what if—” Patty’s voice is muffled. “What if it doesn’t work?” 

“What?” Travis straightens and abruptly stops patting the Patty lump. “No, Pats, listen—the meds are going to work. Or. Or—if they don’t, the trainers will find another. We’ve got like, modern medicine and shit.”

“What if they don’t? What if… fuck, what if I never play—” Pats breaks off and falls silent. 

Oh, Jesus fucking Christ. This is so much worse than the sad Patty face. This is down 4-1 in the third and getting a penalty called on you level of bad. Barry Corbin declaring DEFCON 1 level of bad. Travis takes a breath and goes under the covers with Patty. 

Patty’s curled around himself like an apostrophe, his knees tucked up to his chest, his mouth turned down in an unhappy frown. He squints at Travis as he shuffles down the bed so his face is beside Patty’s. 

“Hey, Pats.” 

“Teeks, c’mon—” 

“No, Pats,” Travis interrupts, “Patty. Pat. Nol. Listen. You’re gonna play again. You’re gonna play again this season. You’re fucking incredible, man—dude, shut up,” he says quickly when he sees Patty opening his mouth, “You’re an absolute beast out there. Okay? Repeat that for me.” 

“I’m not going to _ repeat _that, what the fuck.” 

“I, Nolan Jordan Patrick, am an absolute beast—”

“That’s not even my middle name, what is wrong with you—” 

“—and I’m better at face-offs than Jake—” 

“_You’re _better at face-off than Jake—” 

“—and I’ve got filthy fucking hands—” 

“Teeks, stop—”

“—and I’m going to play hockey again because—” 

“Jesus, okay okay, shut up.” 

Travis shuts up smugly and waits patiently for Patty. 

“I, Nolan Jordan Patrick, am an absolute beast—” He looks at Travis with his _ are you fucking serious? _face. Travis isn’t joking; he gestures for Patty to continue. He rolls his eyes and obliges, “and I’m better at face-offs than Jake. And I’ve got good hands,” he adds. 

“And I’m going to play hockey again.” 

“And I’m going to play hockey again.” 

“Because the team needs you,” Travis says, and then adds, “Because I need you.” 

Patty says, “My middle name’s James, asshole.” He smiles at Travis. “You are so irritating.” 

“Nuh-uh,” Travis argues. 

Patty blows a breath out and chews on his bottom lip, considering. “Okay, I guess you’re alright.” 

Travis scoffs, “_I__ guess._”

“I _ know._” 

“Better.” Travis shifts closer to Patty, watching his face for his cheek to twitch or his nose to wrinkle, just in case Patty wants his space, but—nothing. He puts a hand on Patty’s chest and grips onto his t-shirt; Patty’s breath hitches. “How’s all that stuff between the ears doing?” 

“It’s alright today. It was so bad yesterday. Just so bad. Felt like there was a fucking tsunami knocking against my skull the entire day. It sucked ass,” Patty says, soft, eyebrows furrowing. “I just want to get out there.” 

“Miss the ice?” 

“Mmhm,” Patty nods. He squeezes his eyes shut and puts a hand over Travis’ clutching his shirt. “Miss the guys. Miss you.” 

Travis reaches over with the other hand and gently tucks Patty’s head into his neck; when Travis was a kid, a child-sized package of indispensable energy, always fidgeting, always on the move, his mom used to put him to bed like this—his head against her shoulder, her hand holding the back of his head—until he calmed down and eventually fell asleep. He combs his hand through Patty’s hair. His hair is short now—even Travis’ hair is longer—but it still curls up right at the nape. 

“You’re so small,” Patty says into his neck. Travis can feel how dry and chapped Patty’s lips are, can feel his mouth forming more words against his skin, but there must be a fucking blown fuse in his brain because he can’t register _ anything _beyond Patty’s mouth on his skin. Jesus Christ. 

“What?” he croaks out. 

“I said, what are you so small for?” Patty mumbles, oblivious. “Not for the brains, obviously.” 

“I’m travel-sized, buddy,” Travis says. “I can like, sneak up on people.” 

“Hm, good point. You _ are _ scrappy.” 

“Yeah, I’m full of surprises.” 

“Full of shit, more like.” 

Travis smooths down a particularly vicious hair curl on Patty’s head. “I’m full of heart.” 

“Okay,” Patty agrees, sounding a little bit out of it, like he’s right on the precipice between consciousness and Dream Land. Last season, Pats spent nearly every single plane ride in this half-awake and half-asleep state. Travis used to run his mouth for twenty minutes, talking about how Chase didn’t know how to use the brakes on his bike until he was like, fourteen and just continued to eat shit until then; about the weird birds he’s seen while fishing; about recipes Coots shared with him the previous week. Eventually, Patty would drift off and Travis would take a bazillion zoomed-in photos of Patty’s open mouth and airdrop them to a giggling Sanny. Travis glances down at Pats to ask if he wants to hear another one of these listless stories, but Pats is already asleep. 

Travis sighs. He wonders how mad G would be if he called him again. 

__________

Kevin finds some Tupperware containers in the kitchen for Travis to dump the remaining two containers of soup into. He points out the microwave to Kevin and tries to demonstrate how to use it but Kev just shoves him out of the house. Maybe he should talk to G about getting Kev a journal too. 

That night he goes home and sits on his couch for a while, still wearing his boots and jacket. Eventually, he picks up the Gritty notebook and writes down the date. 

_ NOV 24 _

Then he writes: _ Dear Diary _and immediately scribbles it out. He flips over onto his back with his feet up in the air and thinks maybe if he composes the sentence in his head first and then writes it out, it might be easier and also less embarrassing to read afterwards. 

He thinks: 

_ Dear Diary: I still haven’t figured out the Hayesy baking mystery. Coots refuses to confirm or deny his past statement. I tried to snoop around Kev’s kitchen today when he was in the bathroom and all I saw were a bunch of baking trays. No muffin tins or cake pans or anything. Maybe he’s just baking cookies? But if he and Pats really did bake the apple pie from that one time, don’t they need like, a pie pan or something? Pie tin? Pie plate? Whatever. The idea of Kevin baking is honestly fucking diabolical. _

And then: 

_ Dear Diary: Patty Patty Patty Patty Pats Pats Patty Pats Patty Patty Pats I wonder if Pats ended up finishing Game of Thrones. Daaadaaadadadadaaadadada, that’s the Game of Thrones theme song. I still can’t believe only that one dragon survived. Those dragons were so fucking cool. _

And then: 

_ Dear Diary: today sucked and also did not suck at all. Patty said he feels like his brain is going to explode any day now, which is the sucky part, but I also got to see Patty’s face, which is the not-so-sucky part. Coach keeps talking about patience and reward during practice—not about Patty, obviously, about the powerplay which, honestly sounds pretty counterintuitive to me; we’ve only got two minutes to score a damn goal, why the fuck are we being patient about it? Anyway, the point is, I don’t know anyone more patient than Patty. Injury after injury: before the draft and then before dev camp and then his rookie season and now this. God, give him a break. It feels like there should be a limit on the amount of patience you need to give before you receive whatever reward you were supposed to be receiving. _

And then, just as Travis is about to pass out on the couch for the third time that week: 

_ Dear Diary: think I might love him or something. Fuuuuuuuc—_

When Travis wakes up the next morning, he’s still wearing his jacket and the Gritty notebook is splayed face-down on his stomach but noticeably blank. He feels like some progress was made, which is better than no progress. 

__________

After AV announces the starting line-up against Vancouver, Other Travis starts chanting from the bathroom: “REGULATION! REGULATION! REGULATION!” 

“Shut the fuck up, Sanny!” G yells back, and then says, “But seriously, if we go to OT again tonight, I’m going to lose my fucking mind.” 

Sanny continues chanting from the bathroom, this time louder and with more urgency: “REGULATION! REGULATION! REGULATION!” 

“REGULATION! REGULATION! REGULATION!” Travis joins in, banging his stick against his stall, just for the fun of it. Sanny gives him a thumbs up as he comes out from the bathroom. Hell yeah, Travis-Travis solidarity. 

Patty’s sitting in his stall, still wearing his suit and nice dress shoes. There’s a weird tuft of hair sticking out from right in front of his left ear. Travis wants to tuck it behind and then kiss Patty on the mouth and ask him to marry him. None of those ideas sound like good ones, so instead, he catches Patty’s eye and winks. “FUCK THE SHOOTOUT,” he starts yelling, which receives positive shouts of encouragement from Sanny. Patty rolls his eyes and imitates sniping a goal. _ Score one for me_. 

AV puts him back on a line with G and Morgan. Travis loves Frosty. Great kid. Great hands. Huge smile pasted on his face all the time. From Ontario, too. Kevin tosses a puck to him during warm-ups and he banks it off Carter’s left pad and in. “Oh yeah,” Travis yells. “Feeling it tonight, baby!” Kev yells back. Carter simultaneously gives him a thumbs up and makes a throat-slitting motion at him. 

“No murder before the game!” G yells at Carter. 

The Canucks score one first, a nasty shot by Miller; he can hear Raffs cursing from where Travis is sitting on the bench, trying to catch his breath. G calls down the bench, “Fucking _ relax_, there’s an entire game left to play.” 

Their next shift, Travis tries to get Edler to fight him. He doesn’t really want to fight, it’s still early in the game, but Edler’s really been pissing him off. Edler adamantly does not want to fight, which is a real shame, so Travis calls him a coward a couple of times. 

“For fuck’s sake,” Edler says, “do you ever shut up?” 

Travis just makes some clucking noises and does the chicken dance. 

At some point during a TV timeout in the second, Travis glances up at the press box. Pats is standing right up close to the glass, typing furiously on his phone. Travis bites down a grin. He’s probably drafting an essay on how Travis could make more space for himself if he just “fucking skated a bit faster. You’ve got two legs, what are they even for?” 

“TK! Fucking—TK!” 

Travis whips his head around to see G gesturing wildly at the ice. “Yeah, what’s up, what’s going on?” 

“I’ve been saying your name for like, thirty seconds,” G says. Whoops. 

“Sorry, sorry.” 

G narrows his eyes. His eyebrows look particularly upset and angry. Why are there so many gingers on this stupid team, Travis wonders. “It’s fine. Listen, when I get the puck across, you gotta push your man back.” 

“23?” Travis points. “Edler? He’s been breathing down my neck this whole fucking game.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You can do it. Just do it. Frosty, rim it around if you need to but—” 

In the press box, Patty looks up from his phone and scans the Flyers bench, as if he’s looking for— 

—his eyes land on Travis. Travis waves with his waterbottle, and water goes flying into G’s face. Whoops, again. Patty mouths something down at him but he can’t make it out from that distance. What? Oar? More? Soar? Patty gives him the middle finger and makes the sniping motion again. God, what a fucking asshole, Travis thinks, grinning up at Patty. G yells something from beside him, so he puts his mouthguard back in and hops over the board. 

Duh, “score.” _ Score one for me. You’ve got two hands, what are they even for? _

Coots gets one to tie it, and then Jake scores the game winner. Travis does not score one. He does, however, set up Frosty for a couple of close calls and G doesn’t give him the angry eyebrows again, so. Travis will take it, is what he’s saying. Plenty more games to score for Pats. In the locker room, he takes out his phone after he showers and goes through his texts, trying not to smile too much at the weird fucking emojis Patty sends when he’s stressed. 

“Whatcha looking at, Teeks?” Frosty looks over his shoulder, waggling his eyebrows, and Travis pushes him away, laughing. 

“None of your beeswax, kid. Does nobody respect the vets these days? The fucking audacity of you.” 

“I,” Frosty points his glove at Travis, “have never seen you _ not _talk back to G ever.” And then he tackles Travis to the ground, which is a lot of fun, and Travis has to flop around like a fish on land to get himself out from under Morgan, which is also a lot of fun.

Sanny starts chanting again. “REGULATION! FUCK THE SHOOTOUT! REGULATION! FUCK THE SHOUTOUT!” He throws a tape roll in the general direction of where Travis and Morgan are wrestling on the ground. “FUCK THE SHOOTOUT!” 

“Fuck the shootout!” Travis wheezes out from where he’s lying on the floor with Morgan sitting on his stomach. Patty’s face suddenly appears above him. “Oh _ shit_—oh no, Patty, it’s just you. Holy, you scared me.” Patty offers him a hand, which he takes gladly, and stands up to resounding complaints from Morgan whom Travis has successfully rolled off of him. 

He pulls Pats in for a hug and says, “Sorry, no goal tonight.” 

“Saving it for when I get back on the ice?” 

Travis grips Patty more tightly. “You know it, bud. Against the stupid Penguins,” he says, “you can dish me one right on the tape. Top shelf. Five-hole. Whatever. Game winner.” 

“Why do you get the goal?” Patty asks. He puts a hand on Travis’ hip and squeezes. “You fucking dish _ me _one right on the tape.” 

“Pats. Pat. Patty.” Travis is suddenly gleeful; everything is great, whichever planets have aligned, Venus or Mercury or whatever is in fucking retrograde, and he’s got Patty here. “Whatever you want. Dude, whatever the fuck you want.” 

__________

Travis fills up four entire pages when he gets home after dropping Patty and Kev off at their place. (Travis had asked, “Why do you have such a huge house, Kev? It’s literally just you and Patty here. Aren’t you scared of the ghosts?” Kev had responded, “There are NO ghosts in the house, okay? NO ghosts,” but he sounded a little spooked out by the idea of potential ghost roommates. Patty had snickered.) Anyway, he fills up four pages in the Gritty journal. Granted, one of those pages is a shitty illustration of Coots’ goal in the second and a purposely shitty illustration of #23 on the Canucks. He had to do a quick Google search for “DIY diary padlock,” just to prevent any foreseeable situation in which Gary Bettman gets his hands on Travis’ journal, sees that drawing, and has to suspend Travis for intent to injure. 

The remaining three pages are actual words, most of them even in a sequence that makes a reasonable amount of sense. 

Travis goes to bed in his actual bed that night, pretty pleased with himself. He doesn’t even spend the usual three and a half hours making up real cute and domestic fantasies involving Patty and Patty’s dick. He sends a telepathic thank you note to G and then, upon further reflection, sends one to Ryanne too. 

__________

Patty Facetimes him at six o’clock the next morning. Jesus fucking Christ, Patty, what is wrong with you? 

He yanks his charger from out of his phone and slides to pick up the call. “Hhhhng,” he groans to the Patty on his phone.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Patty says, like the shithead he is. 

“What the fuck is this? A wake-up call?” 

“Yes,” Patty says. “Also, I need a favour. Please.” 

Travis squints blearily at Patty’s blurry face on his screen. He looks like he’s already dressed; he’s got a beanie on and a scarf tied around his neck. Travis is suddenly more awake. “Yeah, of course. You alright, Pats?” 

“Just need a ride to my brain doctor. Haysey’s asleep and—” Patty waves his hand around his head “—not a great brain day today. It’s not that bad,” he adds hastily as if he can hear the worrying gears start to turn in Travis’ head. “Just shouldn’t be driving.” 

Travis is already scrambling around for a pair of sweatpants. He needs to start doing laundry more often. “Gonna be there in fifteen. When’s your appointment?” 

“Six thirty.” 

Travis glances at the clock. “Shit, make that ten. I’m gonna hang up now. I gotta find my keys. See you in ten?” Patty gives him a little wave before he hangs up. He’s wearing mittens with some sort of furry animal design knitted into them. It’s way too early in the morning to be dealing with how fucking adorable this six foot man can be. 

The clock in Travis’ truck reads 6:11 AM by the time he screeches into Kevin’s driveway. He blares the horn a couple of times, hopefully scaring the shit out of Kev, and Patty comes out of the house wearing approximately one hundred layers of clothing. 

“You look like the Michelin man,” Travis says when Patty gets into the passenger seat. He pulls off his mittens—cats, he’s got cats embroidered on his mittens—and struggles to get the seatbelt on. 

“It’s cold as fuck,” Patty says. 

Travis backs out of Hayesy’s driveway and waves up at a bedroom window, just in case Hayesy is up there. He says, “Pats, you’re from like, Winnipeg. It’s like the tundra out there. No lighting, no indoor plumbing, no electricity.” 

Patty sniffs, “Winnipeg gets a lot of natural sunlight, actually.” 

“Jesus,” Travis says, “forget I said anything.” 

“Peg City,” Patty says with a fist pump and then makes a gross gesture with his hands that makes Travis laugh. He takes a long look at Patty from the corner of his eye. He seems better, less tired, at the very least. The dark smudges under his eyes are more smudged and not as dark. He’s got cats stitched onto his scarf too. Where the fuck did he get matching cat clothing? Maybe his sisters? _ Kevin_? Another mystery to add to the list of Patty mysteries. 

“What?” Patty says. 

“What?” 

Patty raises an eyebrow at him. “I asked where your aux cord went and you just made a sound, like—” Patty clears his throat and makes a deranged noise halfway between a wheeze and a sneeze. Travis can feel his neck flushing; fuck, he really needs to get better at discreetly checking out Patty. 

Travis coughs. “It’s in the glove box,” he says. “I did _ not _ make that sound.” 

“You definitely did, but okay,” Patty says, rummaging through the glove box. He makes the wheeze/sneeze sound again with an absolutely blank face and doesn’t even flinch when Travis starts punching his left shoulder. 

Patty tells Travis he can wait in the car while he goes up for his brain appointment if he wants, but Travis just follows him into the building anyway. Patty rolls his eyes as he holds the door open for him. “What are you even going to do in the waiting room for forty minutes? Read the Vogue magazines?” 

“Bitch, I might,” Travis says. 

Patty snorts. “Maybe you’ll finally learn to dress better.” 

Seriously, fuck Patty. “Fuck you, dude,” he says. 

Travis does pick up a Vogue magazine while he sits in the waiting room. Take that, Patty. He reads a couple of pages, flips through the rest of them, squinting at the photos of models wearing increasingly uncomfortable pieces of clothing in increasingly uncomfortable positions. There’s an article about upcycling fabrics and textiles for clothing and after that, a perfume advertisement with a sample that hasn’t been ripped out. Travis glances around at the waiting room: there’s an old man wearing an Eagles cap sitting in the left corner and the smiley receptionist in the other. Probably not two people who would get upset at a missing perfume sample; Travis rips it out and stuffs it in his pocket. 

He gets to the end of the magazine and ends up zoning out and then falling asleep in the waiting room. Sue him. Patty woke him up at six in the morning. On a day off. By the time Patty’s done with his appointment, Travis is completely knocked out. 

“Teeks,” he hears Patty say. “Teeks! Teeks, wake up, man.” 

“What—” Travis drags his eyes open and he flails his arms around a bit before he realizes where he is. “Appointment done?” 

Patty hits him with the Vogue magazine. “Yeah. Breakfast?” 

“Yup,” Travis agrees and follows Patty out of the waiting room. “Do you want to know what Kendall Jenner’s must-have coats are?” 

“Jesus, did you actually read it?” 

“The entire thing,” Travis lies. 

“Even the upcycling clothing article?” 

“What?” Travis gapes. “No, I was lying about reading the entire thing. When’d _ you _read that?” 

“I was early for my appointment last week. Had time to kill.” 

The Patty mystery list gets longer by the second. 

Travis buys them breakfast sandwiches and hot chocolates from the coffee shop down the street. Patty has to take off three different layers before he has enough limb motility to pick up the damn sandwich. “Good sandwich,” he mumbles, chewing down viciously on a piece of sausage. He finishes his sandwich in three bites and steals a strip of bacon from Travis. 

“What’d the doctor say about the brain?” Travis asks. 

Patty shrugs. “Doing better.” He hesitates for a second and then says, “He said I might be able to play this season.” 

Travis hollers and reaches over to mess up Patty’s hair. “You’re fucking awesome, bud. _ So _awesome. Like, fuck it, you’re the best guy on the team.” 

“Calm down, he said _ might _be able to,” Patty says flatly but he looks pleased, corners of his eyes crinkled it like they’re smiling. 

“You wanna celebrate?” Holy fuck, he’s going to play hockey with Patty again. _ This season. _Travis is amped up. “I’ll buy you another hot chocolate. Sandwich? Pretzels? Ryanne gave me a lasagna recipe last year, the one she and G brought to the Christmas potluck, you wanna make that today?” 

Patty throws a napkin at him. “Oh my God, you’re five years old. Chill out.” 

Travis shoves the last of his sandwich in his mouth to shut himself up, so he doesn’t say anything embarrassing. Patty’s looking at him, all soft and fond and flushed pink and bundled up in his cat scarf, and Travis feels something inside of him die a little bit. He swallows. “Hey,” he says to Patty, “I love you, man.” 

He gets another napkin throw at him for all his troubles, but Patty smiles. “Love you too, Teeks.” 

__________

_Dear Diary: good news, GREAT NEWS. Pats keep telling me to “temper my expectations” or whatever the fuck but I am balls to the wall happy for Patty. Best guy I know. Best guy on the team. Best fucking friend. I swear to God, I’m going to get a fucking hatty for Patty next game. Haha, hatty for Patty. I feel like I’ve just run a marathon or something, like— NANANANAAAANANANANNAAANANA that’s the guitar solo from Thunderstruck. _

__________

Travis is pretty sure G’s avoiding him. Which is mostly fair, he supposes, because G did not sound happy when Travis called him at midnight the other day to ask whether journals could be held against you in court or not. He does need some advice though and G’s last piece of advice (journaling) worked out pretty well for Travis. He figures that the best game plan is to corner G on the plane where there’s nowhere to escape to. Jake usually sits with G on the plane, so Travis has to bribe him with a box of fancy chocolates he bought from Shane Confectionery.

“What’s this?” Jake unties the ribbon around the box and pop open the lid suspiciously. “Oooooh, fancy chocolates. Thanks, Teeks!” 

Travis snatches the box back. “Only if you switch seats with me.” 

Jake narrows his eyes at Travis. “Is this a bribe?” 

“No,” Travis says. And then, “Okay, yeah it is.” 

“You sit with Sanny?” 

Travis nods.

Jake shrugs. “Sure, whatever. I like Sanny. Can I have the chocolates now?” 

“What’s the magic word?” 

“Fuck you, Teeks.” 

“Unbelievable,” Travis says, disgusted. He hands the box over to Jake. “No manners from anyone on this team.” 

Jake flips him off and goes to sit on the other side of the plane where Other Travis is loudly arguing with Riems about some fucking TV show. Travis puts his bag in the overhead and makes himself comfortable in the window seat. When G walks down the aisle and sees Travis where Jake usually is, he groans loudly. 

“Haven’t you tormented me enough?” he says, heaving himself into the aisle seat. “How’d you get Jake to switch?” 

“I bribed him,” Travis says. 

“Alcohol?” 

“Chocolate.” 

“Cheaper than alcohol, good choice.” G looks grudgingly impressed. “Okay, well, let’s get this over with. You need some advice from your old man? Girl problems? Help with math homework?” He smirks. “Sex advice?” 

“Jesus _ Christ_, no. I don’t need sex advice, thank you very much.” He kicks the back of the seat in front of him when he hears Coots snickering. “Let’s say, hypothetically—” 

G snorts. 

“—I’ve got a friend. Who is objectively perfect. Like, real stand up dude, real smart, real attractive. You know, the whole deal.” 

“Okay,” G says. 

“_Hypothetically_,” Travis emphasizes, “if I want to date this friend, how would I go about doing that?” 

“You’re asking me how to date someone?”

“No, but—yeah, I guess.” 

“You’ve dated girls before.” 

“Yeah,” Travis says, “but this is different. Like, they weren’t objectively perfect. And I didn’t have to start _ journaling _ and _ talking about my feelings _because of them.” 

G says, “Fair, but… you’re already friends with Patty. It’s not that hard. Just ask him to get dinner and go to the movies with you or something. He’ll say yes,” he adds. 

Travis splutters. “What do you mean he’ll say _ yes _? Also, how do you know it’s Patty? It could anyone! It could be Sanny! Or Coots! Fuck, maybe I want to date you!” 

G raises an eyebrow. 

“I don’t know,” Travis says. “Maybe I’m into the beard! And the whole father figure thing!” 

“Okay, wow, do not say those words to my face ever again.” G looks perturbed and a little bit like he’s considering throwing himself out of the plane window. “I really don’t want to know what gets you going in bed. Fucking hell.” 

Coots turns his head to look back at them. “Are we talking about who on the team we’d fuck?” 

“_What? _” Travis says, whipping around in his seat to face Coots. “No, what the fuck. Is that—is that a conversation you guys have?” 

Coots shrugs. “Sure. It’s a good icebreaker.” 

G says, “I should have signed for more. I don’t get paid enough to deal with you fuckers.” 

“Provy said he’d fuck Jake,” Coots says casually, as if he doesn’t know that he’s shattering any illusion Travis had previously about Provy being a normal person. 

“Oh my God,” Travis says. 

“Do I get paid overtime?” G wonders.

“It’s definitely the beard,” Coots says, commiserative, “and maybe like, the whole father figure thing. Although, Jake strikes me as less of a father figure and more of a crazy distant uncle? Does that track?” 

“I’m putting both of you up for adoption,” G threatens. 

In the end, the entire conversation gets derailed, and Travis doesn’t get any useful advice out of G. However, by the time they land in Columbus, he has collected a great deal of blackmail material from Coots who tells him to use his newly acquired powers sparsely and only when he really needs it. 

__________

_Dear Diary: I mean. Obviously, I’d fuck Pats. Is that even a question? _

__________

They win against Columbus and fly back home to curb stomp Detroit. Travis makes a list of places he wants to take Patty out to and crosses out most of them. They fly out to Montreal the next day and eke out a win, courtesy of a disgusting goal by Provy in overtime. After the game, Travis hitches a ride back from the airport with Kevin who invites him over to watch a movie with him and Patty. 

Patty’s already sitting on the couch with a bowl of popcorn balanced on his stomach when Kevin unlocks the door for them. “Nice goal,” he mumbles to Kev and then when he sees Travis walking in behind him, throws a piece of popcorn at him and says, “Got one finally.” 

Travis collapses on the couch beside him. “Just for you, Pats.” 

“What we watching tonight, Patty?” Kevin says. 

Patty gestures towards the TV where a guy is scaling a mountain with a pickaxe. Travis can’t tell if this is one of those weird survival shows Patty likes or an honest to God nature documentary that Kevin likes. Patty doesn’t say anything else, just hands the popcorn bowl over to Kev; it’s one of those days, then. Travis shifts slightly so the entire left side of his body is pressed up against Patty’s right. _ I’m right here, bud_, he wants to tell him, but he doesn’t think Patty wants to hear it right now so he keeps his mouth shut. After a minute, Patty leans over and brushes his hand across the back of Travis’ neck, just once and just slightly, but enough to let Travis know that he got the message anyway. 

At some point, Travis ends up passing out because the next thing he knows he’s waking up from a dream where he was being chased by a giant lizard, and his mouth is so fucking dry. Kev’s gone to bed; he’s left a pile of extra bed sheets beside the lamp on the side table. The room is dark; the only light is coming from the TV still playing in the background on mute. When Travis tries to get back up, he can’t, and realizes that Patty is lying on top of him, also passed out. If there’s anything Travis has learned in the past couple of months about his dick and also his debilitating attraction to Patty, it’s that this has the potential to get real uncomfortable real soon. 

“Pats,” Travis hisses. “Pats, wake up.” He awkwardly tries to wriggle out from underneath him, but no dice. “Patty!” 

“Hmm?” Patty blearily opens his eyes real slow before they focus on Travis underneath him. “Teeks?” 

Travis gives a wave. “Hiya, Pats.” 

“Jesus,” Patty groans, sitting up, and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “What time is it?” He glances at the clock in the kitchen flashing 3:03 AM, and groans again. “Why do I keep falling asleep on the this fucking couch?” 

“It’s a comfortable couch,” Travis allows, and does not say anything else, because he is not in any position to judge people for falling asleep on their couches. 

Patty looks over at Travis and smiles, tipping his head up over the back of the couch. “Do you remember that one time, in my rookie season, I think, when G made that disgusting casserole?” 

Travis starts laughing before Patty even finishes the story because, yeah, he does remember that God awful casserole. 

“And you took it home because you didn’t want to make G upset, except you spilled the entire thing on the couch, and then you were too lazy to like, clean it up—” 

“—so I put a sofa cover over it and sold the coach to Coots,” Travis wheezes, clutching his stomach. The fucking look on Coots’ face when he pulled back the sofa cover was hysterical. Travis would probably have died laughing in Coots’ apartment that day had Coots not started to look like he was genuinely about to commit homicide and would have no regrets about it either. 

“And you kept calling Coots Casserole Man for a week after that,” Patty says. 

Travis starts laughing again. “Coots still has the couch, you know?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, he made me help wash it out and like, steam clean it or some shit.” 

“You’re such a fucking asshole,” Patty says but like, affectionately. 

“Yup,” Travis agrees.

Both of them are silent for a while. Travis’ thigh is still pressed up against Patty’s. 

Travis thinks about Patty sitting here on the couch in Kev’s living room when they have away games, by himself in this huge ghost house. And although Travis would never say it to him because Pats hates people pitying him—hates the way sympathy crosses the line into pity so much of the time, hates the way the reporters furrow their eyebrows when he talks about not being able to play hockey, hates how the doctors’ voices become softer and gentler right before they need to give the bad news—but, all of sudden, he feels sad, feels an overwhelming sense of loneliness, even as he’s sitting here, not even an inch of space between him and Patty. He thinks about the list of date ideas scrawled in his Gritty notebook and Patty going to his brain doctor appointments alone and how much he misses talking shit with Patty on the bench and makes up his mind. 

“Pats,” he says, urgently. “Pats, I scored a goal.” 

“Mmhm,” Patty says, “you sure did, bud.” 

“You said “score one for me” and then I scored one for you.” 

“Yeah, I _ know_.” Patty squints at Travis. “I was there when I said that. Dude, are you okay?” 

Travis ignores him. “Do I get anything for it?” 

“What—” Pat hesitates. “Do you want something for it?” 

Travis nods. “Yeah, yeah. I do. Like, I really do.” 

Patty’s face is saying _ are you going to continue or? _so Travis takes a deep breath and thinks about G saying “he’ll say yes” and leans over so that his face is an inch away from Patty’s. 

“Teeks,” Patty breathes out; he flicks his tongue over his top lip, which is so much more obscene than it needs to be that it goes right down to Travis’ dick. 

“Ask me what I want.” His heart is pounding. He can hear it in his _ ears. _

Patty mumbles, “What do you want, Teeks?” His lips are barely moving, just enough for Travis to hear, but Travis is barely paying attention. He can’t stop looking at Patty’s dumb pretty face and how his eyes are blown wide and his mouth is open and wet; Travis just wants to get his hands on him. 

He puts his thumb right at the corner of Patty’s mouth and uses his other hand to pull Patty towards him and then he’s kissing Patty, real slow and purposeful, which is incredible, and then Patty’s kissing him right back, licking into his mouth, which is objectively the best part. 

God, he wants to hear Patty, wants to hear his usual low, deep voice pitched up in pleasure, wants to hear how throaty and raspy he can get. He bites down on Patty’s bottom lip; that earns him a punched-out whine, close enough to a moan that Travis bites down again, just to draw out that sound one more time. He’s going to die—no seriously, he is; Patty’s so fucking hot, and he needs to get his mouth all over him before he does die. 

“Patty,” he murmurs when they break apart, panting. Patty’s so red, his cheeks right down to his neck and Travis wants to get his shirt off just to see how far down that flush goes. His t-shirt is all wrinkled and rucked up, so Travis slides a hand over Patty’s stomach and then skates his fingers along the waistband of Patty’s pants. The other hand goes to flick a nipple, just teasingly, but Patty’s entire body jerks like a live wire under Travis’ hands and he flushes even darker. Holy fuck, Travis is going to come in his pants from just _ looking _at him. 

“Patty, fuck. You’re so fucking pretty,” he says admiringly, and sucks on the other nipple, right through Patty’s t-shirt. Patty whines so fucking nicely for him and Travis really cannot wait another second. He slides down the couch and gets on his knees in front of Patty.

Patty groans and tips his head back. “Teeks, shit, you don’t have—” 

Travis just flashes a grin up at him and says, “Get your pants off, you fucking nerd.” 

“Oh my God,” Patty says, “how are you so annoying all the fucking time?” but he pulls his sweatpants down to his ankles. He’s not wearing boxers or briefs or fucking anything, and he’s already hard, his cock pink and flushed like the rest of him. Travis spreads Patty’s legs apart and noses his way up his thighs, planting slick, open-mouthed kisses along the way. He wants it to be so good for Patty, because it’s Patty, the best person he knows who always has a steady hand on the steering wheel, always pointing Travis where to go, and Patty deserves good and gentle things. 

He’s gotta know that Travis loves him so fucking much. 

Travis puts his mouth on Patty’s cock and starts sucking gently, just the head. He licks at the precome and slides his tongue right over the slit. Patty slides a hand into Travis’ hair, tugging gently, and Travis feels hot all over. 

“Teeks,” Pats says, and Travis hums around his cock and continues sucking. “_Teeks, _stop stop stop.” Travis stops, looks up at Patty. He reaches over the armrest and turns on the lamp on the side table, flooding Kev’s living room with light. 

Travis pulls off of Patty’s dick. “Oh my God,” he says, “you want to watch me suck your dick? Is that it? You vain fucking asshole.” 

Pats smirks, but doesn’t say anything, just puts one hand hand back on Travis’ head and wraps one over the base of his cock, and slowly guides Travis’ head back onto his dick. Travis breathes in through his nose, hollows out his cheeks, and starts blowing Patty in earnest now. It’s been a while since he’s done this—not since juniors—so it’s sloppy and Travis takes a while to get his rhythm going, but neither of them seem to mind; above him, Patty starts panting, and he’s got both his giant hands in Travis’ hair, pushing the loose strands of hair away from his face.

“_Baby_,” Patty gasps out, and Travis really didn’t think he could get off from Patty calling him romantic endearments, but his dick is sure willing to try. “Sweetheart, look at your _ mouth_, what the fuck. You look so good on your knees. Teeks, you’re so fucking good.” 

Patty gives a shallow thrust into Travis’ mouth, and starts slowly fucking him, one hand gripping onto his hair, tighter than strictly comfortable, and the other hand roaming everywhere: the back of his neck, down to his chest to pinch his nipples, around Travis’ lips stretched wide around his cock. Travis is moaning around Patty’s cock, so turned on by Patty just doing what he wants with him. When Patty yanks Travis back on his cock with a particularly harsh tug, Travis has to squirm to pull his zipper down and presses the palm of his hand over the bulge in the boxers to stop himself from coming. Patty pants, “You like that?” Christ, Travis likes everything Patty does. 

Pats picks up the pace, becoming more and more erratic, and Travis’ eyes start to water. He looks up to meet Patty’s gaze; he’s staring down at Travis, which is a lot hotter than it really should be, and he lets go of Travis’ hair. He gasps, “Teeks, I’m close, you—” but Travis sucks him down harder and keeps his mouth wrapped around Patty’s cock as he comes down his throat. 

“Fucking _ Christ_,” Patty groans, “you’re insane.” He hauls Travis up onto his lap, over one thigh, and pulls his shirt off. Travis doesn’t even need to jerk himself off, he’s so keyed up; Patty just drags his leg up and Travis starts rolling his hips, grinding the hard length of his cock on Patty’s thigh. Patty’s got one hand on his chin, keeping Travis’ head tilted up so he can bite at the skin down the column of his neck, and the other hand pinching and twisting his nipples. Travis clutches onto Patty as he feels himself get close, losing his rhythm as he chases his orgasm; Patty bites down on an earlobe and whispers things like _ baby _ and _ sweetheart _ and _ don’t need even a hand on you _ and _ Teeks, you’re so fucking gorgeous _ and _ get you in front of a mirror next time. _Travis is not above begging, he really isn’t, but before he can resort to it, he drops his head onto Patty’s shoulder and comes in his pants. 

He collapses right onto Patty’s chest, breathing hard. He’s distantly aware of Patty wrapping a hand around his naked waist and smoothing down his hair. Pats presses a kiss to his cheek, fond and affectionate, close-mouthed and sweet. 

“Teeks,” he murmurs, his lips so close to Travis’ ear that he can feel them moving, “you’re shivering. Let’s go to bed.” 

Right. Where’d his shirt go? Probably behind the couch where Patty threw it. He really doesn’t want to go move though; he crowds closer to Patty and burrows himself into his chest. Patty makes a small pleased sound. 

“How’s the head?” Travis asks. 

“Fucked out,” Patty says. 

Travis laughs, “Good.” 

He raises his head to look at Patty but he’s already looking back at Travis. He’s smiling, looking real content and happy, his eyelashes fluttering as he gazes down to meet Travis’ eyes, the laugh lines around his mouth visible even in the dim lighting. Travis wants to take him home and go to bed with him and take him out on dates and show him the Gritty journal. 

“I’ve never seen you shut up for such a long time,” Patty says, still with that stupid smile on his face, like he’s trying to kill Travis. 

Travis rolls his eyes. “I was preoccupied, _if you couldn't notice_. Didn’t know _ you _ like to run your mouth during sex.” Patty flushes, like he’s embarrassed, and Travis really needs him to know that that’s not what he meant. “I liked it,” he says, “a lot. If you couldn’t tell.” 

Patty snorts, then bends his head down to kiss Travis’ shoulder. It’s so tender and so unlike any version of Patty that Travis has seen ever and Travis loves him. Just, so much. 

“Teeks, I—” Patty trails off. Stops. Hesitates. Swallows. “What was this? You just wanted a sex prize for your goal or something?” 

Jesus, Travis forgot about the goal. _ Sex prize. _Christ. He clears his throat. In for a penny, in for a pound. “No,” he says. 

“No?” 

Travis sits up, shirtless and his boxers sticky with come. He reaches over and wraps his hands over Patty’s. “Pats, listen, you’re my best friend, you’re the greatest dude ever—” 

Patty grins crookedly. “Are you trying to butter me up or something?” 

“God,” Travis says. He can't _believe_ Patty, seriously, interrupting him when he's trying to ask him out, the absolute audacity. “Shut the fuck up, bud. I’m trying to ask you out, but you’re ruining the entire thing. Patty, go out with me?” 

Pats blinks once and then he’s laughing and leaning over to kiss Travis right on his nose and then his cheek and then his mouth. He pulls away, just slightly, to press his forehead to Travis.’ “You wanna take me out?” 

“Yeah, bud. So fucking badly.” 

“Okay,” Patty says and tugs Travis back onto his chest. “Take me out then.” 

**Author's Note:**

> claude at his next contract negotiation: youre giving me vacation pay or im going to the fucking penguins
> 
> ive never been to philly in my life, so im so sorry to philly natives if the places/streets/highways are absolute bonkers. title is from "litany in which certain things are crossed out" by, of course, richard siken. [twitter](https://twitter.com/rusesdeguerre) | [tumblr](https://rusesdeguerre.tumblr.com/)


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